A Breathtaking Image of Defiance
by Pretty Desdemona
Summary: How do we separate the sadists from the heroes? In a world where love and hate are almost mutually exclusive, there is no difference. Reality shows us something far more poignant. Reality shows us reality. Not DH compliant. AU. Oneshot. Complete.


A BREATHTAKING IMAGE OF DEFIANCE

* * *

"_Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;  
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?  
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;  
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more:  
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,  
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest;  
But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest  
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.  
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,  
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;  
And yet love knows it is a greater grief  
To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury._

_Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,  
Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes._"

* * *

I have always been a juxtaposition of four colours. They have personified me, defined me. _She _told me that. Those colours were silvery gold, like my hair; pale antique white, like my skin; slate blue, like my eyes; and inky black, like my clothes, like the tattoo on my arm.

But tonight I feel marginalised by that definition. Of course, on the outside, I remain the same as always, but inside is something else. Something more chaotic. Slashes of blood red, murderous flashes of green, blossoming spots of bruise purple. And all of it moves, writhes, in a silent show of agony.

None of this do I wear on my face.

They're scowling at me as I walk in. I can feel it, even though I'm not really looking. Not at them anyway. You see, I have this wonderful talent for violence and cruelty. And I know that if I lock eyes with any one of them, I will not be able to control myself any longer.

If they only knew the things that are going on inside my head, they'd run screaming. They'd fear for their lives, as they should.

But I am used to the scowls now. I can handle those faces; they won't push me over the edge. Ironic really, that I spent my entire childhood scowling, always looking down at people, and now here I am, the object of disdain and hatred. It clings to me like miasma everywhere I go.

"You're late." one of them says. I think it's a Weasley. Though, as I said, I am not paying attention. I am blinded by my own reality right now. I know for a fact that I'm far from late, and I know that this person is only saying it because they want to chastise me for something, _anything_.

I do not deign to offer any retort to the statement.

And then, after forcing me to relinquish my wand, they lead me to her. I follow them silently down hallways, through rooms, my fingers curling into tight fists as I move through the castle. I don't need to be led, they know it, I know it. But I get the feeling they want to, because they want to _see _me, see how I am dealing with what is taking place. When did they turn into such sadists? And _I'm_ supposed to be the evil one?

We reach a heavy wooden door, the Weasley flicks his wand and it swings open. I walk in, pushing past him wordlessly.

And there she is, slumped on the floor. Dirty and bloody and bruised and broken. _So _broken.

The door is slammed shut behind me with a crash that echoed through the room and makes her jolt.

"Hi." she says.

"Hey." I respond.

It seems quite odd that any conversation with her can begin so simply now. With _greetings_. When had we reached that point? Where the insults became tradition, so much so that they were a given and didn't even need to be uttered anymore. So much so that they meant nothing, that they were playful banter. They were just there, hanging in the air between us. Why hadn't I noticed that before?

"I'm glad you came." she says, her voice cracking just a little bit halfway through the sentence. I know this is because she started out sounding grateful and then that descended into something darker. Something far more desperate. Her voice is very, very small when she says, "I didn't think they'd let you."

"Yes, well, my gold still means something, evidently." my tone is condescending, spiteful. She knows why.

She sighs sadly. "Oh, I hope it wasn't just because of the gold…"

I know what she's trying to say. She hopes that they let me come out of some lingering respect or loyalty for her. I wished it were true.

They let me come because they want to see the look on my face when it happens. I know this.

I want to say something to her, I don't even know what, I just want some tangle of words to pour forth out of my mouth and make her feel better because I know she needs it. I know her. She was always so good at doing that, at putting things in such a way that stops me like a brick wall, that makes all my sadness and regret just drift away on a wave of acceptance. She is a poet really. And now, I wish I could do that for her. I wish I could give her the poetry that's written on my heart. I wish I was smart enough to do that.

I sink down to the dirty floor next to her and she exclaims weakly, "Oh no! Your suit!"

Just to emphasise how much I do not give the slightest fuck about my suit, I let my hand fall into the blood on the floor, before whipping it across my chest, over my heart. She understands.

A cracking sound echoes through the room then, making us both jump.

"Five minutes!" says a cruel voice through the door.

She takes a huge, rattling breath; I can feel her body begin to quiver beside me. "Oh god… Oh _god_!"

She looks at me, her eyes huge and owlish. I can see her unadulterated panic.

"It's alright!" I say desperately, my hand moving up to cup her swollen cheek, "It will be alright!"

It's awful, I know. The worst version of comfort I could ever give her.

She shakes her head, the dank, greasy curls flicking about her face. "Draco, you know that's not true. It's nowhere near alright." And then she's crying. I don't know what to do. It's so sad and beautiful, when those great, fat tears roll heavily down her face. It's an effort not to just stare at her.

She flinches as I lift my arm and wrap it around her quivering shoulders, scooting across the floor to sit closer to her. I'm crying too now.

It's cold, my stomach is empty, my soul is empty and the woman I love is about to lose her life. And there is nothing I can do about it. If only they'd treated her with more dignity, not left her slumped here on the floor sporting broken ribs, blood running down her face, blood on her hands, blood on the floor. If only they'd not chosen to humiliate her like this.

"I wish…" I choke, "I wish…" but I can't finish the sentence. She knows what I wish. I wish she'd never gotten caught up in it. I wish she'd never come to believe the things I believe. Her ignorance would have been better, was worth more than her life. I've said it a thousand times before, every time she's been injured or tortured or hurt in any way.

"I know." she sniffs before drawing my right arm across my body and pushing up the sleeve of my shirt, baring the Dark Mark, black as the day I got it. A second later, her deathly white and emaciated arm sits naked next to mine, her own Dark Mark almost perfectly matched. "At least we have this."

"Was it worth it?" I ask softly.

I feel her nod under my chin and what she says warms my heart slightly. "I think so."

We sit there for a moment, in silence. It feels so perfect to hold her again. Odd really, I hadn't thought my heart could break anymore than it had already. But it was, cracking along all the fault lines, turning into something jagged and sharp that burns in my chest with a pain worse than I've ever felt.

Suddenly her fingers grasp my wrist like a vice, her eyes huge in her face as she stares at me manically.

"Please don't let them do this!" she begs. "Don't let them turn me into a lifeless husk!"

"I… You know I can't stop them!" I stutter, despair filling my veins like ink. "I tried!"

"I know Draco! Just… after it's done… end it. Properly." her voice is low and urgent as the locks of the room begin to click, announcing the arrival of her prosecutors. "_Please_!"

I nod dumbly after a moment, finally realising what she wants me to do.

"Promise me you'll finish it!" she insists, hissing through her teeth.

"I promise." I respond instantly. Deep down in my bones, I'd known what it would come to even before I arrived here, known that I couldn't leave her empty…

She nods stiffly in approval before grasping my hand. "Help me up. I do not want to be a ragged mess on the floor any longer."

I want to protest, I know how much pain it will cause her. But then she gives me one of her old looks, the one that brooks no argument. So I help her, she clutches at my hand and shoulder as I drag her to her feet. I can almost feel the cries of agony stuck in her throat, but she doesn't make a sound.

The room fills with wizards and witches then, all standing around her and I in some sort of half circle of self righteous judgement. There are faces I recognise among them, scowling faces of people who were once her friends. People who she betrayed, and are now paying her back in kind.

A man steps forward and I know him, but my mind is fogged with the deepest sadness I have ever felt. He is dressed all in black.

"Hermione Granger." he says in a deep, booming voice that rings in my ears. "You are charged with eighteen counts of murder by curse and by your own hands. These encompassed not one but _six _muggles, the rest consisting of fellow wizards including Minerva McGonagall, Charlie and Ronald Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt. How do you plead?"

"Guilty to all but one. I did not murder Ron." she says with defiance. I know this to be true. After all, I _was _there, I pointed my wand at him and I uttered the words. And given the chance, I'd do it again. Easily. Weasley deserved to die, and not just for being a blood traitor.

The man ignores her statement and continues ruthlessly, "Furthermore, you are charged with nine counts of using the cruciatus curse, twelve counts of using the imperius curse, assault, theft and aggravated physical violence. How do you plead?"

She juts out her chin, lifts her head and says, "Guilty."

I'm proud of her for that. She knows she's done evil things, I know it too. She always had her own brand of diabolical, because not only did she have the loose morality required for uninhibited violence, she also had her staggering intelligence. She mastered the darkest of spells, spells that only the Dark Lord had ever dared try. Why else would he have allowed a mudblood into our ranks? She believed in the cause, and she had no qualms in acting out the play along with the rest of us.

And my deeds have been just as wicked, I won't attempt to deny it. Though I never managed to replicate her stunning brilliance. I was always left in awe.

What really angered me though, in that moment as the faces of these high minded, would be war heroes stared us down, was that they had all done it too. They'd killed, they'd tortured, they'd committed crimes. The war had been going on for years, and it had been bloody. Everyone had their fair share of blood and grief on their hands.

So why were _we _the evil ones? Because Potter had eventually defeated the Dark Lord and the 'light' had won?

Ultimately, it did not matter. We'd all, light side and dark side, gotten out of it as best we could. The only reason I was not about to share Hermione's punishment was because of some flimsy testimony my father had given and a hell of a lot of money doled out into the right hands.

Don't get me wrong, we tried to help her too. I had nearly run myself bankrupt, just to see her free, and I would have paid double that if I'd had it. But the winning side seemed to have a special kind of bloodlust when it came to her. They wanted to see her punished. And punished hard. To the point that though the Dementors were no longer used by the ministry, they'd brought one in specially for this occasion. Specially to tear what remained of her soul from her body.

"Do you not have any remorse for these crimes that you so freely admit to committing?" asks the black clothed man furiously, bringing me back to the present.

"No more than you have for yours." she snarls, and I see her eyes boring through the crowd at the black haired, green eyed man in the back.

"Very well. Hermione Granger, I sentence you to the Dementors kiss."

And just like that, it's done. So final. The sentence has been set down on the two of us like an iron hammer.

I can feel the cold now, seeping into my skin. It precedes the cloaked, scabbed thing that enters the room moments later.

Hands drag me away from her and I do not resist. She is staring the Dementor head on, has no eyes for me. Our farewells have already been said. There is nothing more to do.

"Time to go, Malfoy." says one of the men who holds me in place.

I shake my head before looking at him intensely. "I _will_ watch this."

For some reason, I don't know why, this is enough. He looks scared. His hand falls away. The room empties slightly but some remain where they are, just to see Hermione Granger's soul ripped from her body. Just to see the life leave her eyes.

I want to kill them all. I want to strike them down. But that will come later.

My hand fingers the wand in my jacket pocket. The one that they had not taken from me when I arrived at this godforsaken place. I had hidden it well.

The Dementor reaches out a scabbed hand and almost lovingly takes hold of her jaw. Her eyes leave the hollowed darkness of its hood for just a second, to bore into mine. I nod, acknowledging her silence need for confirmation that I know what must be done and intend to do it.

A rattling sound of ragged breath fills the room.

And then she's gone. It's surprisingly quick. One second her eyes are full of defiance and fear and anger and passion, the next they are just empty.

The Dementor releases her and, as she collapses back onto the floor, I hear the sounds of her already splintered ribs cracking against one another.

The occupants of the room seem to have been holding their breath, and for a moment, there is almost an exhalation of relief.

Until I pull out my wand.

I don't even look at them, though I can see Potter rushing towards me out of the corner of my eye.

"_Avada Kadavra_." I say the words with more passion than I have ever felt. One cannot cast an unforgiveable without meaning the intent with their mind, body and soul. And I meant this one. I meant it deep in the marrow of my bones.

I know her body is dead before it even hits the ground.

There is screaming all around me, people rushing back into the room. I know what they will do now. They will arrest me, and in all likelihood I will be subjected to the same punishment because I stole something from them that was precious. I stole their last revenge.

But I won't give them the chance to rob me of my soul.

My wand tip finds my temple.

And I say the words again.

My last thoughts?

Potter had learnt long ago that some people could not be killed. The Dark Lord's failing was that he had nothing but an unquenchable thirst for power to drive his motivation, to fuel his remaining links to life.

Hermione and I, we weren't like that. Not entirely. We had love. Combined, we had the Dark Lord's intelligence, his malevolence and his wickedness. But love made us more deadly, far more dangerous.

The finality of death was not an option.

The very last thing that moved through my mind as it faded with my body, as my heart and my brain simply ceased to operate, was the knowledge that one day, I'd come back for Potter. And she'd be at my side.

* * *

_End._

* * *

A/N For my little sister on her eighteenth birthday. Because she hates happy endings. And I love her for that.

Desdemona

xx


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